


Django/Calvin Alternate Ending #3

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: 'Seaweed' Wine Kink, Biracial, Cock Tease, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fetish, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, Master/Slave Dynamic, One-Sided Relationship, Possible Rape, Psychotropic Drugs, Racial Bigotry, Racial Perversion, Recreational Drug Use, Sensuality, Sexual Tension, Slash, Trust, Various Kinks, emotional tension, ‘Wakame’ Wine Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another alternate ending with little or no Drabbles/ficlets<br/>*Updated Tags*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE

It was only an hour prior to rendezvousing with Broomhilda, and already was Doctor Shultz shown to a guestroom upstairs next to an entire wing for guests, Django stood with his back to the wall on the porch lining the farthest western-facing deck. The labor in Candieland grew to it’s pinnacle as the sun beat down further more fiercely on the many negroes backs, those toiling endlessly their hourly activities, many in different colors slowly picking their way northward in the fleecy white meadows, women and children went about in fruit orchards picking apples and peaches and red plums, some in uniform brought in and out coverlets and carpets to beat and hang to dry. 

As far as the eye could see, there were ever more negroes mucking stalls and holding horses for white farriers whilst they discarded like-new shoes for freshly made iron rings, farther away just a mile or so from the bayou came gunshots and the obvious hillbilly hoots of Billy Crash and his posse, he took the sunglasses out from his pouch only to put them back when hearing behind him inside the mansion: 

Django shook as if the whip were cracked against his knees, he crammed back the urge to shoot down Calvin Candie and steal Broomhilda away, yet there was still the matter of unsigned papers of freedom, so he followed the inquiry, “Django, may I have your audience in the smoking room?” 

Inside, there was a breeze that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, he glanced up to see sheets long in width of embroidered tapestry and cord connected to an attendant in the furthest area of the parlor, the fitted cloth swung to and fro creating the breeze he felt. Cherry wood tables and plush-backed chairs lined in a circle around a great fireplace, to the back was a table fitted with cabinets, no doubt filled to the brim with bourbon and all sorts of well-do spirits and such, sitting facing the western scene of profitable labor was none other than the master himself: Calvin Candie. Legs crossed and carved ivory pipette curling strong wisps of imported tobacco like the intoxicating caress of greed, Django approached as he fought the fresh urge to choke the hell out of the plantation master. 

“On your hands and knees, Negro!” Stephen shouted behind, arousing the attention of Calvin, he turned himself slightly to rove from Django’s gun belt up to his shadowed eyes, a single whip of cane on the poor cleaning girl’s back brought a smile to Calvin’s occupied lips, “Scrub like you love’s ‘em floors. G’on! Make ‘em shine like you’re shining Mister Candie’s boots. Y’know how you love’s his boots, now! If they’s ain’t cleaned like they’s supposed to - you’ll have them boots you love on your back!” 

“Django, have a seat,” the plantation master’s voice was terribly void of the Southern lilt which most native and bathed in money plantation heirs had, yet there was a hate and love they all had for their ‘property’. 

“I’d rather stand,” Django answered. 

“I insist,” Calvin motioned to an empty seat which sat hardly but an uncomfortable legs’ space apart from the other, Django instead reached down and poured himself a drink, he downed the liquid without tasting it and lit himself a cigarette. 

“You have many like Stephan to wipe your ass for you,” Django said, glancing behind and out the door to the white-haired crone shuffling about behind a bone-tired negro girl and her scoured expanse of floor, he looked back to the scene out westward while taking a long puff, “I ain’t sold.” 

“Well, my guess is that Doctor Schultz’s dear Django had his shackles unlocked not too much past his own antiquity,” Calvin rocked back and fourth on his heel, his tongue licking up, down and around the ivory pipette cradled in his right hand, “How long has you been free, Django?” 

“A good while,” Django said plainly, taking another puff himself to stamp out the aftertaste of sweet tea and bourbon. 

“Do you mind me making a wager?” Calvin asked as he continued to rock slowly, flicking the ash off the cigarette tip as he looked aside and up for a favorable sign of an answer. 

“Which Mandingo’d you have in mind?” Django asked, smoke burning outwards from his nose and around the wings of his visor. 

“A sharp negro gentleman like yourself shouldn’t slave away- let me rephrase that -: ,” the plantation owner leaned back into his seat, taking with him Django’s used glass, he poured himself an iced tumbler of sweet tea and bourbon, “Working for me will be easier and far more profitable than working for Doctor Schultz, Django. You’d be happier having yourself professional employment.” 

“Namely in Candieland. No need for accompanying the snake oil man anymore than you need another set of teeth,” Calvin laid down the honey sweetly in his voice to the sound of ‘Candieland’, and the many things he could do to Django if the opportunity ever presented itself. 

Another bout of smoke huffed from under the visor, visibly clouding the already shadowed eyes, he answered simply, “More teeth don’t sound too bad.” 

“My point of this entire row is my proposition to you, Django. Wouldn’t you like to stay here in Candieland?” Calvin asked, toying with the idea of beating Django into submission, but having suddenly a taste for this vehement spirit, he decided against his usual trademark of getting his way. 

“Your negro Stephen do’n’t seem to like me none,” Django said. 

“Don’t mind that ornery old hog, he’ll soon give up the ghost and let you alone,” the plantation owner set his pipette aside and held the full tumbler emptily, he awaited for the long pause to end or give some sign that it was shortening, “My proposition still stands, Django. All I need is a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.” 

“Buy a negro who can to be bought,” Django answered, unfazed by the ‘generosity’ of the offer laid out for him, he hated nothing more than those who thought a man’s loyalty could be wavered by dirty money, “I’m no auction.” 

“What was it you said, Django? Now I’m paraphrasing here, but as I recall how you did tell to the Doctor: -” Calvin worded, drawing on the important detail he was aiming to highlight from the previous hours before they arrived in Candieland, he curled the long hairs of his chin whiskers between thumb and forefinger before killing the dead anticipation for his answer, “-‘He doesn’t want to buy the negros I want to sell, he wants to buy the ones I don’t want to sell.’ Well, am I correct in my repute, Django?” 

“Ain’t no way can you buy me back into the bridle,” Django smoked the last bit of his cigarette before flicking the butt down unto the carpet and rubbing the dying embers away with his boot tip. 

“Ungrateful negro, you!” Stephen came faltering into the smoking room on his cane, barely keeping his footing in anger as he ambled toward the pseudo-unbeknownst-to-them-black Slaver, he threw down a fit for the burned carpet and shouted tirelessly, “Get invited into the master’s home, have his bourbon, walk his floors, breathe his air and insult his horse! Apologize, negro!” 

“I’d rather stand,” Django lifted his foot and placed his heel on the singed carpet, he ground the tobacco and ash deeper into the carpet to Stephen’s absolute dismay, “I’ll show myself to my place.” 

“Django, a moment,” Calvin looked back, catching the other’s eye only for a second and it pained him, but he still had to see if he would get any sass from his head groundskeeper, “Go, Stephan, ask dear Lara Lee what she might of tonight’s supper.” 

Sure enough, Stephen raised his voice only to be interrupted by the plantation master, “Ah-! No lip, Stephen. Just act useful for once, you sour, hoary bastard.” 

Off the old man went limbering and shivering up the stairs to the mistresses’ room. Calvin finally stood, seeing eye to eye with the ‘rambunctious’ negro who strolled about Candieland as if He were the one all too happily laying the whip upon his fellow work hand, he stepped back to look the negro slaver up and down, he touched the dark hands wiry and sturdy with veins and callus. The exact opposite of his own, his creamy hands beautiful with it’s own idle work, but he liked the skilled pair either way, and Django pulled his right hand away from the plantation master’s lustful scrutiny. 

“I don’t like no white folk pawing up on me,” Django said, twisting and wringing the gentle touch off his hand with his other palm, he continued flatly, “Especially offering money.” 

“Cigarette?” Calvin raised a brow, he pulled out a golden cigarette case from his breast pocket and took one single roll out, Django raised his hand to receive the offering, but the plantation master pulled back. 

He put the cigarette between his lips, he lit the end with a match and took a deep drag, without a second thought, he pulled Django to himself and devoured the thick lips with his own. The dizzying asphyxiation of smoke choking him until he had no other choice than to breathe, the bounty hunter finally allowed himself to inhale the thick smoke lining the velvety lips flavored by sweet tea and bourbon. The South’s most sinful vices rolled into one kiss seduced him almost as much as the one pushing the turpitude on him: mind-altering drink and smoke, lust and adultery.


	2. A Little More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's another chapter instead of a 'collection'

The smoke was harsh and hot in the beginning, soon enough did the burned tobacco go to work and made his head swim, his lips light with sparks, his limbs felt too long and numb to respond as he wanted. With his hat visor too low to fit two beneath it, the plantation master flipped the headgear off and continued as they did with smoke filing out from his nose as his mouth moved and throat allowed a steady stream of strong essence from his lungs, into Django’s mouth where it was eventually inhaled, a little seeping through their lips as it did. Opium extract, the cigarette was once dipped in opium and maybe somewhere within the mix was a dried derivative, and holy hell could it burn a new one. 

Nowhere to run, and having nothing else to do than to accept, Django drew a Long blank with his usual reflex of aim and shoot. Standing unfazed, the plantation master did by example and tossed his cigarette to the floor, crushing the red ash as he did and pulled the other man close with his right arm hooked under the other’s ribcage. Lest his tongue be mauled off, he kept his kiss strictly lips only, Calvin crushed his lips to the unresponsive one’s, his chin working against the soft curls and the negro slaver finally came to his senses, grasping at the gun’s hilt. Calvin threw his own hand over the palm grasping the loaded revolver, he squeezed down on the other hand, the Mandingo Expert fought to draw the weapon and fire the bullet off, he drew back in anger with a loud, sticky pop. 

Winded, pissed and close to boneless, Django felt his legs give way to nothingness, the room sliding in colors too bright and terribly devoid of joy, like a demonic land painted by candy, he half groaned and something else in his voice he had not felt since marrying Broomhilda, “Get your hands offa me!” 

“Here. Have yourself a little more, Django,” Calvin lit another and lifted a lamp to light the end, he put the lamp back down and drew in a long breath. 

Once again, the blissfully sickening vertigo of smoke was inside him, whether he wished to be taken by the drug or it’s supplier’s lips, there was no choice in the matter, until his legs gave out to which the plantation master set him gently on a couch and drew closer. Django had not noticed before, but Calvin had a wonderfully sugary and stingingly vaporous taste. Facts of that notion sunk in, neither would be ‘tasting’ one another if the kiss were open, and the only way…

He felt himself lick against the plantation master’s tongue, hearing himself hum in pleasure of the act, yes it has been Too long without Broomhilda, if only the fucking drug would wear off before…

Calvin Candie came back from closing the smoking room doors and locking them from the inside, being a little more inured to the effects of opium-laced smokes, he came striding back looking more wolfish than he intended. Too late. 

Django tried to grimace, making himself look more menacing to ward off the plantation master who loomed over him as wholly as dew on ice, only the plantation master chuckled and leaned over the man’s outspread knees, he pulled the guns out from their holsters and unbuckled the holster-belt. Blissfully boneless and swimming in a euphoric high, he watched as Calvin inhaled the opium-laced cigarette deep until more than half turned to ash and the rest glowed, another deep puff later, the plantation master slunk back to him, leaning and craning his neck over his dazed eyes. Letting himself take in the detail of the moment: 

Though Django had more than a shred of anger and less than a needle’s-worth of strength, he kept his eyes open and his mouth working, he said without falter, “This’s nothin’.” 

“What’d you have me do, Django?” Calvin unceremoniously grabbed the bulge in the Mandingo Expert’s pants, he whispered over the soft curls of the man’s moustache whilst keeping his eyes bore into the angered dark ones’, “Whip you? Chain you? Strip you naked and have you running stark around my property?” 

None of the above, Django wanted to be treated Impersonally, and still with more respect than he had as a slave, he twisted in the unmoving grip on the crotch of his pants, none too gently the hand rubbed up and down. The build between the cloth between soft skin had him squirming and ears ringing as if somewhere in his mind a gun when off, paralyzing his own musings to a complete standstill, all there was in this room was the infamous Calvin Candie and himself, plenty of souls populating the outer-world of the smoking room, but there was no way to call for help. Not at all in the mood for begging or asking for help, he forbade himself to wish that Doctor Schultz would stumble into the place unannounced, there was no shame for the fact of what his body had years before giving unto itself, yet he kept suspicions at bay for what Calvin Candie was Making him into. 

An animal. 

Still the hand gradually pulled up the tucked ends of his shirt in, below the undershirt and his button up, little by little there again had been an inkling how natural and unnatural the situation was. Still, those realizations only seemed to fan the flames building and building upon a debauched foundation, he squirmed for what seemed like an hour and more, possibly due to the opium fumes still wreaking hellacious havoc in his system, playing god-and-devil-tricks with his mind. His skin crawled with warmth and droplets of cool burning down his face and skin, he realized it was only the sensation of sweat, the palm on his abdomen walked two inches up like a flesh spider only to drag itself down to his waistband, his hips instinctively hitched. 

“The name Calvin Candie don’t come with obligatory guts, like some folk who live delightfully with their heads up the government’s behind,” Calvin breathed cloyingly into the folds of his undone jacket, he pressed the very prominent erection he sported right into Django’s, he reached up with his tongue to the prone man’s lower lip, “You know Who I am, and what I Do, Django. I live a long, forgetful life.” 

“You’ll remember me, Slaver-! You’ll remember Calvin Candie-!” the plantation master whispered into Django’s neck, he nibbled along the short whiskers and bit down hard on the man’s adam’s apple, his other hand worked up a fury of friction, the Mandingo Expert just about lost his mind as his pants were unbuttoned and his cock springing free, he moaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating Calvin’s lips. 

Calvin kept his rhythm, hard, fast and merciless on the hard length in his hand, he sucked on the adam’s apple and kissed the long cords of muscle in Django’s neck. Suddenly, he bucked up bodily into the man who still stood over him, looming like death’s shadow, giving the ‘fuck all’ moan, he kept his hands digging into the armrests, his whole upper torso shaking in spasms and legs twitching in the close proximity of release. He bit his jacket collar to quiet himself, only save for the fact that ordered him a command he could not fight to refuse: 

“Don’t be ungenerous now, I didn’t do all this work to see it go to waste, just Let Go,” he whispered whilst stroking harder and stepping back to watch, Django pushed himself up into the man’s unspoiled suit and came, his eyes closed and fingernails digging into the armrests, he at last exhaustedly groaned, white streams dribbling down from Calvin’s vest, he fell back down sated and fitfully dozing. 

“Antoine,” Calvin called for a servant, in less than a breath at the door unlocked stood a tall, mildly-mannered manservant, instantly seeing the white stain on his master’s vest, he took the clothing off and fetched a fresh garment from the linen line, the plantation master fixed his cuffs while speaking new orders, “Have poor Doctor Schultz’s valet taken up to his room, have his clothes washed and have a bath for him before supper. Understand, Antoine?” 

The man quickly nodded and said, ‘Yes, Mister Candie’, he hauled Django over his shoulder not before tucking the knocked-out man’s ‘parts’ back into order, Calvin strode over to the Mandingo Expert and blew smoke in his face, at long last whispering personally, “Welcome to Candieland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had no title for this (^~^)P  
> But thank y'all for reading~!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more drug-induced sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you Anita for the comment & being there to read~! Q(^~^)P

Supper with the Candie’s, Schultz and along with Broomhilda serving them was more or less like walking through a maze covered in rattlers, and each step through they traded venom all the while showing off the diamonds on their backs, Django was unimpressed. Calvin kept the conversation light with a touch of humor, once in a new topic glancing to the eyes trained on his as the host and a little displeased at most as he watched the Mandingo Expert’s gaze remain straight ahead or on his plate, about ready to order a menu of less colorful, verily bland-looking foods - supper came to an end. Broomhilda cleared away the table utensils and foods as Calvin rose to his head of the table and took his partially-full flute in hand and tapped the side gently with his steak knife on the side to gain the attention of his supper-company, for which they gave in full back to their host. 

“Gentlemen, -,” Calvin Candie raised his glass whilst looking down the row which his guests and the men sat, he then looked directly at his sister, “- My dear Lara Lee -,” tipping in her direction, the plantation master smiled jovially to the entire supper-set as he spoke all too happily, “- What better a way to end an evening and celebrate a new partnership with one of My favorite pastimes: -” 

“A dance with the Green Fairy,” the plantation master proclaimed to the brightened smile of Doctor Schultz and the more pronounced frown of Django. 

Schultz quickly intervened since his pseudo-Mandingo Expert and himself were thinking the same thing, “But of course, Monsieur Candie, Django and I must turn in for the finality of our transactions.” 

“Oh, Doctor Schultz, I must insist you join Lara Lee, my bookkeeper and myself to one drink,” Calvin grinned as he duly noted the negro’s tightened grip upon the filled goblet, he looked directly betwixt his two guests and worded with more a sexual overtone than he intended, “It won’t make me think less of y’all’s one bit.” 

“We’re tired,” Django answered after setting down his glass. 

“Au revior and Guten nacht, Monsieur Candie, Lara Lee,” Doctor Schultz tipped his glass to the persons mentioned as he stood to formally bid his host and Candieland’s occupants goodnight. 

“Doctor -,” Calvin politely input before his guests could turn away from the supper table, he then looked directly at the Mandingo Expert, watching the slight widening of the dark eyes, “ Django, I promise you, tonight we’re all equals.” 

“One drink should not be too much a burden, my friend,” Doctor Schultz patted his valet’s shoulder as he asked with renewed spirits for the night’s activities, “To which room are we to share the commencements of our new espirt de corps?” 

“Why, the smoking room appropriately,” Calvin itched his nose with his left hand, barely shadowing his wink aimed at Django to the negro’s obvious irritation, he then explained politely before inhaling his glass of bourbon, “It’s the only room with all the Good absinthe and spirits.” 

The guests and household occupants still holding a replenished glass followed suit and downed the strong liquor, each to their own as they either cleared their throats as Doctor Schultz had done or gently set down their glass as Lara Lee did, and after they soon followed Calvin Candie to the infamous room were they given new tumblers and a bottle tipping emerald-hued spirits into their wares. 

“To a new friendship; may the enemies of our friends have their balls in a vice and salut,” Calvin raised his glass for the nth time to his guests and following his small speech he tilted back his tumbler along with Lara Lee and his bookkeeper, he grinned devilishly, “Curious thing, no?” 

“Really, Monsieur Candie, I must turn in or the ground may have me on my back,” Doctor Schultz smiled through his drunkard’s blush setting color into his cheeks as did Django for having not a stomach for bourbon and absinthe in the same hour, the German practitioner arched and eyebrow to his host for the rarity of the precarious drink in all his travels, “I believe one more sip may pacify me for the night.” 

“One more drink it is,” Calvin declared as he served his guest himself and quickly filled the glass with a second helping as was Django’s right after. 

Doctor Schultz easily gulped the liquid down as if it were water, he chuckled at the tickling sensation of his own movement, he asked giggling a little while he spoke, “I haven’t really caught an aftertaste to this one, one more?” 

“Another?” the plantation master grinned, pouring another round for the entire circle around him, each tossed back their fill and staggered slightly as they regained footing, all except Calvin who had but one glassful and a sip of absinthe. 

“If I may assume correctly, my jovial gentlemen and -absent lady- that drink there-” Doctor Schultz swaggered as he hung off the shoulder of the bookkeeper, several servants came in as if on cue to lead the guest up to his rooms, “-Is the Shit! I shall retire for the night, keep out of trouble, Django.” 

All were taken away save for Calvin and Django, each taking in the other as they stood a dozen paces away from each other, color melting from the walls behind Calvin and making the plantation master’s eyes stand out beyond the wine and gold wallpaper. Django kept his gaze from straying away, from focusing on anything but the man standing before him in the master’s manner. The plantation master caught sight of a smaller, more potent bottle -moreover- a vial of absinthe sitting harmlessly where he last set it on the low table, the lock clicked forgotten in the entrance to the room signaling for the real festivities to begin. 

Wasting no time, Calvin took from his back pocket a pair of iron cuffs, both fitted with a lock and a set of keys jangling from the thick chain, he stalked forth with the articles in hand, his mind working it’s plans and assessing Django. The negro was not at all afraid, emboldened and made more forward of his impudent wonder for what the plantation master had intended to do with the shackles. Django felt himself moving, though he could not for the life of him understand How he got himself into a chair with Calvin Candie looking down, taking in each detail of the sitting Mandingo Expert, licking his lips and thumbing the keys knocking musically against the shackles. Suddenly, the plantation master kneeled between Django’s outspread knees, taking the keys into his teeth as he locked the iron cuffs about his own wrists. 

His blue eyes rolled from Django’s half-hard cock up slowly to the slitted eyes, he laid the keys down on the negro’s leg, his lips breathing over the throbbing cock-tip as he stated in his breathless tone, “Unlock me if I’ve earned my freedom…” 

With that, he laid his lips on Django’s inseam and licked the seam from base to waistband, his teeth scraping after and lips pressing each indent of clothed vein. His nose dipping once in a while to rub against the stiff protrusion, the appendage hidden to his mouth smelling of salts, musky sweat and a sweet oil made heady through what he noticed was leaking steadily through the stretched-constricted trousers, once reaching the very top just under Django’s buckle, he gently pinched the fabric covering just below Django’s lower abdomen. He stared upwards to the seated Mandingo Expert, his eyes asking for anything but the barrier of clothing set before him, begging for the buckle of the gun holster belt to be undone and shirt to bear all that he had the pleasure of feeling hours ago. He shuddered with need, his lips pulsing and tongue remembering the taste of Django, his own cock standing at attention and straining against his own trousers. 

Django only stared down at Calvin, sneering at the back of his mind of how the plantation master of the infamous Candieland kneeled under him in shackles which he put on himself, the visible Want projecting over and over in those blue eyes and every visible ragged breath seeming as if to heat his cock. He toyed with the idea of shooting the man while he had the upper hand and taking his wife and Doctor Schultz from this damned place before the hillbilly posse could stop them, but his cock ached - tingled and throbbed for attention, obviously only for the kind Calvin Candie could give him. He decided then that the plantation master would have to work for the release that they both wanted, he slowly, deliberately inched his dark fingers over to the heavy silver buckle of his holsters, Calvin lurched forward and kissed his fingers in overflowing gratitude. 

He allowed the pale lips to press and lick sloppy kisses over each knuckle and joint as he bided his time to unclench his fingers, and move his entire hand across from the armrests to his buckle, chuckling as Calvin caught his lazy fingers in his mouth and bit down lightly, leading the Mandingo Expert’s digits to his buckle Finally. The plantation master continued to lick and suck his fingers even while he was unbuckling the heavy silver fastenings of his belt, sliding the punched leather out, Calvin’s salivating mouth moved to suckle the negro’s knuckles and tendons across the back of his dark hand, teeth scraping occasionally to punctuate each dip and prominent vein protruding from under his skin, finally sucking along the sensitive scars wrapping around his wrists. His limbs simmered with desire burning like the fuse of dynamite, each touch of Calvin’s lips to such a nonsexual organ such as his hand lighting sparks inside his arm, minimal yet powerful enough to have his arm muscles twitching and a raspy groan to be torn from his throat. 

As Django’s belt came undone but lay listlessly still in place, Calvin sneered inside his mouth, his mouth descended to the wooden hinges of Django’s heavy jacket, first clasping between his teeth the fabric’s edge and with his tongue slipping around and pushing the wooden button through the punched enclosure, loosening the second from the last button since the first was already undone already. He pushed himself upward slightly for the next, repeating his few but effective gestures, with three more to go the going was becoming increasingly difficult due to Django’s quickening in breaths, making the rising and falling of the plantation master’s work-grounds a moving fight between Newton’s Law and the Laws of Attraction. Finally getting the button through the loop, he proceeded to the second from the last clasp, he rose on his knees not before Django pushed him back down on his knees with a single hand pushing back on his collarbone, he had nothing else to do other than watch in awe and something other than the weak pulse of desire flare up in his heart. 

Just as deliberately, less fluidly, the Mandingo Expert took the last two clasps in hand and undid them, he parted his jacket to Calvin’s awaiting gaze, the blue eyes never leaving his own as he then unfastened the buttons fixing his suspenders to the hips of his trousers, alas revealing the high waist of his pants and even More buttons to undo. Calvin accepted the challenge and licked his lips, jaws aching and tongue a little more worked than usual, he swallowed the saliva coagulated inside his lower set of teeth and went back down to finish the job. Django only hinted to a half-animalistic whimper as he felt Calvin’s teeth once more nibbling and sucking the tip of his near-exploding cock, his hips lurched upward, pleading wordlessly ‘more!’, the plantation master’s mouth salivated as it worked the fly of his breeches open, his cock again standing unabashedly proud between his legs, to his horror, Calvin stood up on his knees and began tugging the end of his dark shirt, completely ignoring his hard-on as rude and stupid as it was to complain so early in their night’s events. 

“Too many Fucking buttons!” Calvin growled against his abdomen, the sensation of the plantation master’s mouth yanking and pulling suddenly at his tucked shirt made his cock throb and leak all the more. 

Falling in love all the more with Calvin Candie’s talented mouth and vowing to do Anything to get that mouth back where it belonged, Django took pity and jerkily shucked off his coat and shirt, along with the upper quarter of his pants being pushed down to his thighs, ever more was Calvin so thankful for being helped in seeing the man’s body sooner, he nuzzled up along the soft curls sparsely dappling the center of Django’s chest as the Mandingo Expert took a seat with his long legs splayed on either side of his kneeling form. Calvin laid himself as best he could atop the negro’s cock, he rubbed his abdomen and vest over Django, whispering under his breath as the negro leaned forward ‘oui-oh! -oui’. He licked over Django’s lips, his tongue pressing inward only to meet the other appendage licking the outside of his teeth, he felt an arm wrap around his neck and pull him forward into the stifling space they had hardly room for keeping apart in, their skin crawling deliciously as their lips finally melded together, each tasting of cigarettes, bourbon, supper’s aftertaste and bourbon. 

Damning himself at the moment for not being able to touch the beautiful body born a rich-ebony laborer, Calvin could only feel the hard muscles rippling against his own, his hands clenching in their shackles, pulling and yanking at the ungiving grip of the master’s choice iron clasped around his wrists. The sensation of Django wrapping his legs around his torso and sliding down to tangle at his folded knees drew a groan from him, only to have it swallowed in their kiss, neither afraid if the other bit their tongue off in fit of trying to get Closer if possible, he rubbed himself up and down, squeezing himself to Django as the black slaver’s iron spurs dug into the backs of his thighs. The jingling wheel rolled up and down his thigh and stabbed into his leg as he bit Django’s lip to imitate the pain in his muscle, only they both groaned deeply and continued. 

Hearing the jangle of metal clinking upon metal in sharp taps, Django smiled knowing the sound all too well, he whispered as his hands traveled over Calvin’s shoulders, following the soft cotton sleeves covering quivering muscle, over the hard swells of biceps and forearms until he had both tethered wrists in hand, his fingers brushing along the shackles’ twin cuts lining over the white wrists, his voice low and husky he grinned, “Hurts, don’t they?” 

“Like a mosquito bite compared to this-,” Calvin punctuated by pressing his upper body downward unto the tip of Django’s dripping cock, caressing a mother of pearl button against the leaking slit. 

Django rose on the heels of his boots against Calvin’s thighs, his spurs digging in and bruising the plantation master’s legs as he rode the waves of absinthe licking and eating his common sense whole, he watched the plantation master bite his collarbone and reach aside with his mouth to the low table, his lips closing over an open bottle of the forgotten vial of absinthe, he laid the vial gently down between Django’s legs, he sneered more of a drunken twist of his lips rather than an arrogant cad, “One more dance with the fairy, shall we?” 

“Take off your pants. Close your legs tight, and pray,” Calvin said as he bit the cork right off the vial and watched as the Mandingo Expert raised a brow in curiosity, then complying moreover in inquisitiveness than defeat, he tilted the tiny bottle in Django’s now-naked lap and watched as the deep-chartreuse liquid pour out, he picked up the vial’s end and empty it of the precious liquids. 

Calvin Candie licked his lips before lowering himself into the Mandingo Expert’s lap, careful not to touch the man too harshly or caress his parts, lest the absinthe leak out of the enclosure made by Django’s legs and abdomen, he sipped carefully, his whiskers brushing along the dark legs positioned at his side whilst he kneeled at Django’s left hip, his body positioned in a bow over the clasped legs, hard muscle trembling with a cold sweat and cock bobbing against his right ear. For some odd reason, he appreciated the musky taste permeating and mixing with the drink, which soon instead heightened and enriched the salty-honeyed taste of Django’s skin, he sipped and swallowed heartily as the trapped absinthe-lake began to recede. He then pulled back to appreciate the sight of sopped curls winding upward with delicate pearls of bubbles clinging to their ends, the plantation master dipped his tongue down into the wet crevice, lapping at the remaining glaze of extract still clinging to the man’s legs. 

Django squirmed unconsciously, his eyes drinking in the sight of the tongue descending further into the valley between his legs and at the pouch of his sopped scrotum, he bit his lips feeling the mouth lick him dry only at the base of his cock now straining and reddish maroon at the tip. He sensed Calvin scooting before him, kissing his knees and nuzzling his legs apart with the whiskery tip of his chin and cheek, his thighs shivered from fatigue as they parted wide to allow the plantation master in, he dug his fingers into the armrests as they had done before, only this time he felt Calvin’s mouth sucking at his testicles, tongue rolling under and around each as the teeth lightly scrapped and nipped at him, he felt his body arch forward into the plantation master’s touch. Now more than ever did each touch hurt him at the very pit of his stomach, each accidental brush of Calvin’s groomed whiskers brushing his inner thighs and at his ass he felt himself set ablaze in live nerves and skin too hot at the touch. 

Calvin moaned and nibbled at Django’s perineum, then licked his lips to calm the man down from blowing too quickly a load he was working on wringing out of the beautiful ebony man, he nuzzled the Mandingo Expert’s hip, one then the other until his hair stuck matted to his forehead, each neat wave sticking against Django’s sweaty skin, he kissed along the defined hips, across Django’s lower abdomen and bellybutton, finally meeting his gaze. He shivered with his own release near, close but still unable to be reached, he watched Django’s chest rise and fall deeply from breaths, the muscles expanding and clenching as he pressed another soothing kiss to his lower abdomen. 

“Look at me, Django,” he whispered, Django down from the ceiling, shocked by the intensity and quiet of Calvin’s voice as they saw only each other for the next words, “Remember the name ‘Calvin Candie’.” 

That should have been the signal to quit, to cut all ties and run because Calvin Candie looked as if he were Pleading for Django to recall the events taking place, to look back on their night fondly and quite possibly, no matter how wrong it was for Django, he nodded wholeheartedly and gripped the plantation master’s face, his hands petting the matted hair softly until the obscured blue eyes were found and neither could look away as Calvin swallowed the entire length, his throat pulling and tightening as he swallowed around the Mandingo Expert. Their eyes locked, Calvin bobbed his head, licking what he could if his tongue could reach, he tightened his lips as he reached the base of Django’s cock, milking upwards and sucking the tip only to drop back down and busy himself milking and scraping his teeth lightly on the tip. 

Django fisted his host’s vest and dug his boot spurs into the man’s thighs, urging him to pick up the pace, he felt his hips ride up into the slick grip caressing with each bob of the plantation master’s adam’s apple, the anatomical bulge caressing the underlying vein under his cock, each bob as he drew down into the hot slickness bumping and bearing down on the sensitive eyelet dripping at the tip of his cock. He moaned, whimpered to the sensations eating him up limb by limb, his stomach dropping with the weightless heaviness inside just below his navel, bubbling and boiling to the surface, he threw his head side to side as if to deny the end, but his body crying, weeping and his lips sobbing for completion. His hips bucked up, burying his solid length inside Calvin’s welcoming throat, adam’s apple bobbing against his vein and pressing over the sensitive tip, he felt himself go rigid. 

His arms tense and legs tangled around Calvin’s thigh’s, he pulsed for the last time as the world went dark. He blinked as the pit inside his stomach emptied, bliss pouring out and singing inside his limbs, his body half alive and wanting to die with the unending sensations rolling throughout his body. Again dropping bonelessly into the chair, he fought the dark to stay awake and revel in the afterglow, remembering Calvin, he hooked a leg around the plantation master’s hip and drew him forward, he took from behind himself the set of keys for the shackles and swung them before the plantation master’s eyes as of yet unrelieved of their pleasure. 

“You think you’se free?” Django asked, Calvin could only watch, unable to answer if he could even muster a fit reply, “ ‘Cause you’re a slave to someone-” 

Unlocking the shackles, Django fetched his clothing, quickly putting them on and unable to meet Calvin’s gaze for fear that the warmth of Broomhilda not ever being enough again if he followed his heart, he gave the keys to the plantation master after getting fully dressed, he said finally, “-And it ain’t me.” 

With the night ending too early, Calvin was left in a turmoil with himself, and now more than ever confused for what he felt for a man he was wanting to buy as mere property.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a one-trick pony :3
> 
> Sorry for not including this footnote earlier! : 
> 
> *'Wakame Sake' means 'Seaweed Wine = which is a sexual act (orginally Japanese) which is wine (in this case absinthe) poured unto a person's lap, between the legs squeezed together & dammed in by the lower abdomen; & the fact that how pubic hair is present inside the drink appearing like seaweed, hence the name 'Wakame Sake'.

**Author's Note:**

> ...i can't do dialogue like Tarantino, :3 LOL


End file.
